Survival
by Sword Brethren Caedus
Summary: The 60th Hunger Games are about to begin. But one of the contestants is strange. He calls himself a 'Marine,' and he's like nothing the Capitol has ever seen before. His origin a mystery, the new tribute of District 8 will face greater challenges in the coming days as he adapts to his new world, and fights a war he cannot win. [R&R, please! I can't fix what I don't know is broken!]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, and am owned by the Marine Corps.**

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I'm writing this so that someone can know what really happened after I'm gone. I've never been able to tell anyone the truth, not even the others in the rebellion. No one would believe me. Even if I showed them the evidence, they'd just think I'm crazy. But I have to put it somewhere. So I'll write it down. I'll write it down and leave the book somewhere someone can find it.

The legacy I'm leaving is not one I'm proud of, but it's the one I chose. I believe in something greater than myself. A better world. Someone once asked me what I'd do then, when I got to my better world. I told them I wasn't going to live there. That there was no place for me. I am a monster. What I did was evil, I have no illusions about it.

My name is Adrian Cherenko. I was a Lance Corporal in the United States Marine Corps. After fourteen years, I still haven't been able to figure out how I got here or why. All I know is what happened after I arrived.

It was raining. I remember that much. As time goes by, I remember details of my old life less and less. Sometimes I get flashes of it back, certain smells, funny stories, but only the training never goes away. It's burned into my muscles.

I'm rambling. Where was I?

It was raining. There was mud. A lot of it. So much that the ground where my platoon had slept the night before had been churned into a swamp that sucked at our boots and slipped us up. And it kept raining. It fucking sucked. I was bone-tired and dirty. My squad was sent to dig fighting holes-defensive positions that we could take cover in. I lay down, my weapon in my hands, providing security as my partner began to dig. In the mud. I think I fell asleep.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. I can't really describe it. It was the sort of smell you associate with industrial cities, factories. When I opened my eyes, I was still lying in the prone. But I wasn't on the rain-soaked muddy hill any more. I was in a warehouse, surrounded by crates marked with a stylized eagle. Leaning against one of the crates was my assault pack. Scrambling over to it, I opened it, searching through its contents. It held a bandolier of ammunition, several MREs, and a piece of paper that had written on it a 7-digit string of numbers and the words "Stay alive."

Not that I needed the encouragement. I loaded my magazines and replaced them in the pouches of my plate carrier, loading one into my weapon. Slinging the pack onto my back, I tried to puzzle out what the numbers were for. My eyes fell upon a similar string of numbers stamped on the crates. I mentally slapped myself for my idiocy. Quickly, I began searching for the matching crate. Once I located it, I quickly pried it open, hoping to find something that could tell me where I was.

Instead I found the rest of my uniforms. My desert utilities, my service uniforms, my dress blues. I found more ammunition, as well as enough MREs to keep me from ever taking a shit again.

"What the fuck?" I muttered, "Where the hell did all this shit come from?" I looked at the blues coat in my hand. It was definitely mine. After a moment of indecision, I packed my other set of woodland-pattern utilities in my assault pack and replaced the lid. Picking up my weapon, I began to make my way out of the warehouse. As I moved, I thought I heard something. Carefully, quietly, I peered through a crack in the shoddily-constructed door. Outside looked like what it smelled like. A dirty, industrial place, completely unlike where I had come from. There was nothing growing that I could see, not even weeds. Taking the safety off on my weapon, I pulled the door open slightly, keeping my rifle pointed out. I made my way slowly through the streets, alert for any movement. It seemed deserted, which only put my nerves that much more on edge. As I came out around a corner, I saw two people in white armor, armed and talking to each other, it looked like. My first thought was _Stormtroopers_. My second thought was _Shit, they've seen me._

"Hey!" The one on the right called out, "What are you doing here? This area is restricted!" He was just noticeably taller than his partner, who asked, "Who are you?" I'll admit, I felt a little relief when they spoke English. American-sounding English, even.

"Lance Corporal Cherenko," I replied, lowering my weapon a little, "US Marines. What's-"

"Is that a rifle?!" the short one asked, harshly.

"Yes," I answered, dragging it out into two syllables. I tightened my grip on it. I didn't like where this was going.

"Put it on the ground now!" they raised their own weapons, white FN P90 Submachine guns, at least that's what they looked like. "You know the laws! Civilians are not allowed to possess firearms! Put it down!"

"I don't understand, what the hell-" I began to ask. The taller one fired a short burst over my head. He aimed to miss, I know, but I just reacted. I fired back, two shots that took the "Stormtrooper" in the chest, his blood staining his white uniform red. I dropped, right as his partner fired right where I had just been. I lined up my RCO as he lined up his sights. Two more casings hit the deck beside me as the shorter "Stormtrooper" also fell.

I moved the second I'd gotten off my rounds. I pushed myself onto my knees and launched myself at the nearest cover, the corner I had just came around. After a pause, I peeked around the corner again. Nothing. Moving over to the bodies, I searched them for anything that could be useful. Nothing. Only ammunition for their weapons, a set of handcuffs, and a collapsible baton. As I got ready to leave, I heard something.

"_-ounded like gunfire. What's going on? Report!_" I scrabbled at the dead man's helmet, pulling out the radio. With a soft chuckle, I attached it to my plate carrier, making sure that the transmitter was off, only the receiver.

To tell the truth, that's the last part I remember clearly for a long while. I know several days passed, but they all consisted of my hiding out, using the stolen radio to avoid patrols, sleeping in ramshackle houses that looked like they hadn't been used in years. I avoided all contact, and still they found me. I had three more skirmishes with what I soon discovered were called "Peacekeepers". The fourth time, they caught me. I remember being flash-banged, then clubbed unconscious.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, or anything related to it.**

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When I came to I was handcuffed, sitting in one of two chairs in an otherwise empty room. My Kevlar and plate carrier were nowhere nearby, the same went for my weapon and pack. I had nothing but my utilities. I could hear talking come from the next room.

"I don't care what he knows, I don't care where he's from! He's killed almost two dozen of my Peacekeepers!"

"Might I remind you, Cleric," another, calmer, voice replied, "That almost half of those were friendly fire incidents in the last two skirmishes with this…Cherenko."

"So?"

"So, maybe a little less heavy-handedness would be in order? Or would you like me to tell President Snow how…uncooperative you were?"

There was a pause. "Fine." A door opened behind me and two people walked into my field of view. One wore the white armor of the Peacekeepers and a look of loathing on his weathered face. The other was dressed very austerely, in a black suit, complete down to the black tie. He had the perfect face of an actor, and he gave me a smile that was in no way reassuring.

"You've led Cleric's Peacekeepers on a merry chase, young man," he said with a smile, "I couldn't help but notice a certain…aptitude in your methods."

I said nothing. Black Suit brushed some imagined dirt off the front of his coat.

"Cleric," he began, "Would you please leave? I would prefer to talk to Cherenko in private."

With a grumble, the older Peacekeeper left the room. The black-suited man pulled the other chair closer and sat down across from me.

"Just between you and me," he said, "I really don't like playing these kinds of games." He gestured at the door. "Things are always much simpler when people can just…talk." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "My name is Rufus Hallen. I already know who you are, but for the sake of conversation, let's assume I don't." There was a long pause before I realized he was expecting a response. I licked my lips.

"Lance Corporal Adrian Cherenko," I said, deadpan, "519-45-3387; October 13, 1994."

Hallen's eyebrows rose. "Oh? I guess I didn't know everything," he said with a smile. I didn't respond. "Where are you from?" he asked.

"Lance Corporal Adrian Cherenko; 519-45-3387; October 13, 1994." He frowned at that.

"That's not what I asked. Where are you from?"

"Lance Corporal Adrian Cherenko; 519-45-3387; October 13, 1994." Hallen pinched the bridge of his nose.

"This is going to be a long day," he sighed.

It turned out to be several long days for the both of us. I never left my chair, except to use the restroom. Hallen's friendly demeanor never left even as he or his lackeys tried various ways to break me. My response to his questions never changed.

My first hint something was going on was when a Peacekeeper interrupted Hallen as he got ready for the day's "conversation". The Peacekeeper whispered something to him, his face turned away from me. Hallen nodded, and the two of them left without a word.

I heard muttering from behind the door, as someone spoke in an undertone. The door opened, and an older man walked in. He wore a rich suit with a white rose in its lapel, and had white hair and a beard. He took the seat across from me and folded his hands in his lap. We sat there for a while, watching each other. The smell of roses was overpowering, alongside the faint smell of blood. The old man spoke first.

"Let's get right the point," he said, "I don't like liars. Rufus and I are alike in that respect." He took a deep breath.

"I've spent a great deal of time studying you, Adrian," he continued, "You won't know who I am, of course," he continued, "My name is President Snow."

I couldn't help but sit up just a little straighter at the old man's title. He smiled. "As I suspected. You are…a very interesting person." He looked at the nametapes on my utilities. "I believe Rufus has completely underestimated the significance of your existence." I just raised an eyebrow. He looked me in the face again. "Everything about you indicates that you come from a time before Panem existed. From your…archaic uniform to the very identification we found on your person."

"You don't know me," I said irritably.

"I know you are the last surviving member of what was the United States Marine Corps," he stated, "A country and organization that no longer exist, and therefore a title that no longer holds meaning."

"It holds meaning to me."

"And only you," Snow replied. There was a pause as I grasped the veiled threat behind his words. "You present me with an interesting problem, Lance Corporal," he resumed, "but also, a potentially interesting solution."

"And what could I _possibly_ do for you, Mr. President?" I asked sarcastically.

"You can play a game." Once again, his reply caught me off balance.

"What?"

"The problem you pose is actually a fairly simple one. What am I to do with you? What makes it interesting is another problem that has arisen. We have a game that is held every year, here in Panem. It's called the Hunger Games. Twenty-four competitors are chosen from the twelve districts that make up Panem, and they fight."

I couldn't help it. That got my interest. "For what?"

"For the richer districts? Glory. For the poorer ones, like Eight? Much-needed supplies. Food, medicine."

"Why?"

"A reminder of a rebellion that destroyed an entire, 13th, district. That they cannot win a fight against the Capitol. Every year, they watch as their children die, until only one remains. The survivor is showered with gifts, and lauded as a hero. It's very popular in the Capitol."

"Not so much in the Districts, I take it."

Snow looked at me hard. "It's not supposed to be entertaining for them," he agreed, "But, tell me, as a soldier-"

"Marine."

"As a Marine," he corrected himself, with a conciliatory nod at me, "You've seen first-hand what war does. Wouldn't you do anything to prevent another?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I could see his point. It sickened me, but I agreed with him. If twenty-three had to die so that thousands would be spared the horrors of a full-scale war…

Snow nodded. "I thought so."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to realize what I'm offering you. A chance to give your title meaning again. A chance to avoid a war. Afterward, you'll be able to live alone. In peace."

"If I survive."

"If you survive."

I sat there in silence. Snow seemed content to wait. "One condition," I said, "In this one warehouse, there's a crate…"

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**Review, please! I like to know how much people like/hate/despise my writing!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Still don't own the Hunger Games. Still government property.**

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The first thing I did after I'd been released was shower. While I showered, someone came and took my cammies. They left clean, plain, clothes, though. I frowned when I saw them. Yes, they were clean, yes, they fit well enough, and yes, I was _completely_ out of regulation to wear the cammies, but still, I felt uncomfortable wearing the civilian clothing. Stepping out of the bathroom, I was accosted by an attendant who asked me if there was anything he could do before we left for the Justice Building, which was like the City Hall, apparently.

"Yeah, actually, there is," I said, "Have you recovered that crate yet?"

"Yes, sir," the attendant answered, "It wasn't hard to find."

"I'm taking it all to the Capitol, but I need some things from it now. You'd better make a list." The attendant left after a bit, frowning and shaking his head a bit. When he'd asked what I'd needed these items for, I told him that those items made up the Service Alpha uniform, which was the required uniform for reporting in to a new duty station. He'd looked at me like I was from another planet, but apparently, they'd all been told to accommodate me, as I was the replacement tribute for District Eight, which was apparently the District I was in.

When I asked what happened to the original tribute, they wouldn't tell me. My Alphas finally arrived, and I got dressed; long-sleeve button-up khaki shirt, khaki tie, gold tie clasp, green trousers, and a green coat, with my Lance Corporal chevrons, one chevron above a pair of crossed rifles, sat green in a red field on both of the sleeves. A pair of black dress shoes and a green garrison cover completed the uniform.

Without fanfare, I was loaded in the back of a vehicle along with an "honor guard" of Peacekeepers for the trip to the Justice Building. When we arrived, they ushered me inside without incident. Well, at least they thought they did.

"Yesterday we learned about the death of the male tribute from District 8," someone was speaking from a nearby room. When I looked in, it was empty save for some kind of TV-like thing, and what looked almost like a newscast was on. "This obviously caused a great deal of concern. What were we to do?" I didn't hear what came after that because as soon my picture flashed onto the screen, someone spoke up.

"Congratulations, you're famous," the voice said, dripping with sarcasm, "Who are you?" I turned around to see a teenage girl, sixteen, maybe seventeen, standing there. I was one to talk. I was eighteen, still a teenager myself, but I just felt older.

"Lance Corporal Adrian Cherenko," I said, holding out my hand, "US Marine Corps. And you?"

She raised an eyebrow, looking disdainfully at my hand. I lowered it back to my side. "Catherine Derris. Are you the new guy?"

I furrowed my brow, confused. "If by 'new guy' you mean the replacement tribute, then yes."

She rolled her eyes. "No, stupid, I meant the new janitor," she drawled sarcastically, "what else would I be talking about?"

"Just trying to clarify…"

"Just trying to clarify," she said in a mocking tone, crossing her arms across her chest, "Who the hell are you? Some rich boy who volunteered? Trying to impress your family?"

I rolled my eyes. "No. Like I said earlier, I'm a Lance Corporal in the US Marines."

"What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means I'm a Marine, sworn to defend the United States Constitution from all threats, foreign and domestic."

Derris looked even more confused now. She even stopped being sarcastic, which seemed to be her dominant personality trait. "I thought marine meant water-related. Like, fish and stuff."

"Well, yes, it does-"

"Then why are you saying you're marine? You're not a fish." The last bit came out like she was taking to a small child.

I huffed in irritation. "I'm _a_ Marine. _A_ Marine. We're…we _were_…warriors. We fought wherever we were needed to protect people."

"So…you're a soldier?"

"No, soldiers are in the Army."

"Isn't that what you're in?"

I sighed. "This is going to take a while…"

It did. We were on the train headed to the Capitol before Derris thought she got it. Of course, stopping in the middle to start over because two others, our "mentors", whatever that meant, had joined us didn't help.

"So…you're a Marine, but a warrior, not a fish," she began with a small smile at her own joke.

"Yes."

"Marines defend a piece of paper that says that people have certain rights that no one can take away from them."

I thought about it for a second. "Essentially. It's more like we defend what the paper says, not the paper itself."

Catherine waved her hand dismissively. "Whatever. As a Marine, you worked for a government that was based off that piece of paper?"

I sighed. "Yes." She seemed hung up on the Constitution.

"What if the government said the paper said something it didn't?" This was one of our mentors, an older man who apparently had been a previous victor of one of the games.

"That's why I swore to defend it form threats foreign and domestic."

"But how would you know?"

"Because the Constitution was available to everyone. Everyone could see what it said."

There was silence for a couple of seconds. "You're not from District 8, are you?" Catherine asked.

"No, I'm not."

"He's not from Panem at all," the older man said, raising a glass to his mouth to drink. The other mentor, a woman in her mid-twenties threw him a look that clearly told him to shut up.

"Martin and I were…briefed before we got on board by your escort." She told the both of us.

"Escort?" I asked.

"The representative from the Capitol who draws the names at the Reaping?" Derris said, like she was reminding me.

"Reaping?"

She sighed and buried her face in her hands. "OK, my turn…"

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**Like I really need to explain how the Hunger Games works.**

**I'm starting to think no one reads this. Review, please! I'd like to know what all eighteen of you who've viewed this think! Even if you hate it, at least tell me why!**


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